Hello lovely people! Here is part 4, I hope you enjoy xx
xxx
[-Steve-]
The road stretched ahead in one long endless line. Dusty dirt and dead winter grass crept onto the asphalt around the crumbling edges like it would one day swallow it whole.
Steve watched it go on, and on, and on, from the passenger window, fingers tapping a restless rhythm against the glass.
His body felt like it wanted to sink into the sea of dead yellow, too.
"Steve?"
Steve blinked, dragging his eyes from the horizon and over to Sam, who was looking concerned, eyes flicking between the road ahead and the passenger seat.
"I asked if you wanted to stop for food," Sam repeated.
Steve shook himself. Get your head together, Rogers. "Yeah," his voice was rough, the first words he'd spoken all morning. "Sorry, that'd be great, thanks."
Sam nodded and put the blinker on to pull into a petrol station that was just ahead.
"I hate to say it might be burgers again, but…" Sam grimaced. "I'd be lying."
Steve mustered up a weak laugh, looking back out the window at the old station, peeling paint and only two pumps, one petrol, one diesel, and grimy windows advertising $5 Burger and Chips!
"I think my stomach is made of steel," he told Sam seriously.
Sam frowned. "Flaunt yourself all you want, superboy. The first thing I'm doing when we reach D.C is digesting a couple of months' worth of vegetables."
Steve rolled his eyes. "You're so healthy."
"Some of us don't have muscles built into our DNA," Sam retorted, smiling.
Steve huffed. He had him there. "C'mon. I'm starving."
Sam parked the car and they wandered into the station, clocking all the entrances and exits by habit. There was no one there except for a truck driver sipping a black coffee at a corner table that wobbled on uneven legs. One woman manned the counter, boredly flipping through a magazine and blowing her fringe away whenever it drifted into her line of sight.
"Good afternoon," Steve greeted, smiling the most alive looking smile he could paste on. "Table for two, please."
The woman looked up from her magazine and flicked her hand vaguely towards the near-empty eatery. "Pick your poison. Come order when you're ready."
They sat at a table with a good view of the door, the chairs creaking and the table wobbling under the weight of their elbows.
Steve took a deep breath and looked around, trying to chase away the heaviness of defeat from his mind. They had been searching for months, and nothing.
Nothing.
But it was fine.
"It's fine," he muttered out loud, drawing a napkin from the stash in the middle of the table to pick at.
Sam watched him over the table quietly, his eyes conveying Steve's not-so-favourite tell me all your feelings and we'll work through them expression. He sighed. "I'm fine, Sam. Don't worry."
"Oh, I am worried. About a lot of things. But that's whatever. Right now, I just wanna know why you're looking at that napkin like you want to become it."
Steve shifted his gaze back to Sam's eyes sheepishly. "I'm just tired," he tried.
"We're taking a break, Steve. We're not giving up."
"I know," Steve sighed. And he did. He did know. It was just…
Every second they wasted following ghost stories across the continent was a second that Bucky was somewhere Steve didn't know, and couldn't reach him, and couldn't bring him home.
"You need to rest," Sam's voice was firm but kind. "We both do."
Steve ripped up the napkin guiltily, heart twinging uncomfortably in his chest. "I'm sorry," he said. "You've done so much, already."
Sam put his hand right over Steve's face. "I'm going to stop you right there. You're my friend. Of course I'm going to stick with you through this. I chose to come with you, so don't apologise that we haven't found anything yet, okay? But it's time to take a break and reassess our options."
Steve sighed. "If there are any more options left."
"There will be. But we sure as hell won't think of them running on fumes like this. When was the last time you even slept?"
Steve opened his mouth.
"And don't even try to say last night, 'cause I heard you leave for a run at some ungodly hour."
"It was five," Steve protested weakly.
Sam raised his eyebrow.
"Three," Steve allowed, shrinking a little in his seat.
The eyebrow rose further, and Steve's stomach twisted like a school child's. Damn had he perfected that look.
"Two," he huffed, crossing his arms petulantly. "You really should be a teacher, you know that?"
Sam shrugged. "It has been said."
Steve tugged a menu from the holder at the edge of the table to change the topic. It didn't matter that he hadn't been sleeping that much. His body could handle it, nowadays. Not like when he was a child and had to get a minimum of about twelve hours just to keep his organs functioning right.
And how was he supposed to sleep when the only thing he saw when he closed his eyes was a file that read Sergeant James B. Barnes and a frozen face, his voice- who the hell is Bucky?- and long hair whipping across dead eyes.
"I'm thinking The Lot," he said, eyes resolutely reading over the very short menu.
"I'll take the same, thanks." Sam slapped a twenty on the table between them. "Pay with that."
Steve glared at him half-heartedly and picked up the bill. "You know it's my turn to pay, right?"
Sam waved him off. "Yeah, yeah, make it up to me later when you're not all mopey."
Steve smiled, the first real one all day. "Thanks, Sam."
[-]
It had been a while since they had entered a city not chasing a trail.
It felt almost aimless after pulling on whispers like threads for so long, and Steve was already dreading the weeks ahead of absolute nothingness.
Spring had turned the trees to blossoms down the roads, bare paddocks and endless space becoming crowded with gardens and driveways and schools and shops as the city crept into being. Steve counted the still-bare trees as they passed.
One.
Two.
Two and a half.
Mostly three.
Four.
Fivish.
Sam eventually pulled into a driveway overgrown with weeds and let out a sigh, knocking his head back against the headrest.
"Home, sweet home," he smiled wryly. "How do you feel about gardening?"
Truthfully, Steve had no opinion on gardening, but he tried to smile back and pushed open the door, breathing in the sweetly scented air.
The house was just as Steve remembered it, but slightly more… neglected. The front yard was covered in tall grass and the front door and windowsills dearly needed a repaint. It looked like no one had come near it for months, weatherworn and abandoned.
Well, Steve supposed that was true.
Sam grabbed Steve's pack from the backseat and shoved it against his chest. "Let's go."
Steve trailed after him, wiping his shoes on the old doormat, though the floors inside were so dusty he was not sure it made much of a difference.
"You can have the spare room upstairs," Sam pointed up a staircase that wound from the corner of the entryway. "And the kitchen's through here, if you remember."
Steve didn't have the heart to tell him that his perfect memory meant he remembered every damn floorboard of this place, and so let himself be led behind Sam into the cramped kitchen. Sam frowned at the fridge.
"I really don't wanna open that," he scrunched his nose pre-emptively. "I didn't empty it before dropping everything and going."
Steve shared a look with him.
"-Dibs not-"
"-Dibs not."
"Damn you." Steve muttered, though he found himself smiling, small and tired. "I have a superhuman nose. It's not even fair."
Sam held his hands up in surrender. "I ain't the one that makes the rules."
Just to be an ass, Steve walked over to the fridge and ripped the door open before Sam had a chance to evacuate the room.
"Oh God," Sam groaned behind him.
Steve held his breath.
Oh, God, indeed.
[-]
Sufficiently shopped, fridge-cleaned, fed, showered and bed-made found Steve pacing tracks into the carpet in the spare room.
It had been five minutes since he had run out of easy, we-should-do-this-right-now tasks, and he was already feeling his skin itch and his eyes wander towards the windows overlooking the quiet street, mind buzzing through all the cities they hadn't yet looked, all the whispers they hadn't followed.
He had no idea how he was going to stay still for long enough for Sam to consider him rested.
Pacing once more around the bare room, he figured he had done everything he possibly could do in the space and padded downstairs to flick on the television. He hadn't been keeping any sort of track of public affairs in recent months, and the one place that managed to get information before anyone else seemed privy to it, was the media.
After flicking through a few infomercials, he was met with a close-up image of his face, the headline Captain America: A Fugitive? written in bold across the bottom of the screen.
This. This was not the kind of world update he had meant.
"Uh, Sam?" he called. "You might want to see this."
He heard footsteps approach and then trip and stop dead at the entrance to the living room. "I'm sorry- what?"
Steve shook his head. "I don't know. SHIELD was dismantled. Who am I a fugitive from, exactly?"
Sam moved further into the room, coming to stand beside Steve. His face was wary, his mouth in a firm line as he listened to the reporter.
"-report released in the last week, we've been hearing accusations of our very own supersoldier, Captain America, running on the wrong side of the law. It has been reported that he has resisted multiple attempts at arrest and a call for his trial has been given. Sources say that the nature of his crimes are under thorough investigation and are currently considered confidential in the name of national security…"
"You haven't received any passive aggressive emails about a trial, have you, Steve?"
"… No."
"Okay. Just checking."
Steve blinked at the screen, feeling like he was caught in a loop, seeing the newsreader's lips moving, but unable to process what he was hearing. "I don't even understand."
"When the hell do we ever get told anything first?"
"I don't-" Steve sighed and collapsed onto the couch behind him. "A fugitive, again?"
"At least Natasha could've given us a warning."
"-And Bucky's just been running away from who knows who to who knows where for who knows how long-"
"-I would like to be at the top of Tony Stark's email list, please and thank you for the future. Actually, make that Pepper's, she's way more reliable. My heart can't take this constant stress much longer. We gotta hole up, Steve; the whole of goddamn America could be after your head if they twist this into something nasty."
"-I just wanted to find him, that's all I wanted-"
"Steve? Buddy, did you hear me?"
Steve put his head in his hands, groaning a little. "We gotta hole up. I heard you."
Sam was quiet a moment. He placed a hand on Steve's shoulder and squeezed. "I'm real sorry about Barnes. But we'll find him, okay?"
Steve exhaled heavily, rubbing his eyes. "It's fine. We need to find the answers to this first. What the hell is going on?"
Sam pursed his lips, looking like he didn't want to brush Steve's emotional turbulence under the rug quite so easily, but eventually nodded, moving to the windows to shut the blinds.
"I dunno, Steve, but it feels a hell of a lot like déjà vu."
[-]
"Why do Avengers always end up on my doorstep?"
"Good morning to you, too," Natasha patted Sam's chest as she breezed past him into the house.
Steve smiled. "Aren't you a sight for sore eyes?"
"You flatter me," Natasha grinned. "Now move, pretty boy, I come bearing gifts."
"You better have," Sam muttered, following behind her as she stalked straight to the kitchen table and pulled out a seemingly endless supply of cords and devices and weapons and one lumpy package from her deceptively small bag.
"Auditioning for Mary Poppins or something?" Sam asked, eyebrows raised high as he perused the pile on his table.
"The book?" Steve asked, puzzled.
"The movie. Add it to your list." Sam picked up a gun and twirled it in his hands. "Do I wanna know where you got all these?"
"It was a book first, Steve. Don't let him bully you. And no, you don't."
Sam held the gun out in front of him between the tips of his first finger and thumb and placed it gently back on the table, taking a pointed step back.
"This is for you." Natasha chucked the lumpy package towards Steve. It was lighter than he had expected. And squishy.
"What is it?"
"I don't know, Sherlock. Why don't you open it and find out?"
"Very funny." He squeezed the package between his hands, searching for a sender address. "Where did it come from?"
"Stark's. Came from a post office near here, of all places, but no name attached. JARVIS deemed it non-threatening."
Steve nodded, pulling at the tape. A fluorescent blue fluffy blanket and a book spilled out of its confines. Steve squinted. Were they… shields?
"Someone's got an admirer," Sam ribbed, his grin one-hundred-and-ten percent shit-eating. "It's adorable."
"I don't have an admirer," Steve muttered, checking over every inch of the blanket. He tilted his head in confusion. "It has arms."
"It's called an oodie," Natasha supplied, her smile and the glint in her eyes were as close to laughing as she got. "A wearable blanket."
Steve huffed. "Only in the goddamn twenty-first century. Life would've been better if I had this back in the thirties. Maybe I wouldn't have hacked up my lungs every-" he trailed off, furrowing his eyebrows. Surely it wasn't…
It couldn't be…
… could it?
There was only one person still alive that knew personally how he used to get in the cold.
He bit his lip before he could splurt out his thoughts. He didn't want to see the pity looks and sad smiles. They'd say he was looking for anything, anything at all, to say he was still alive. That he remembered.
And Steve had to admit, an oodie was hardly evidence of anything at all. That he once suffered from pneumonia on a near yearly basis (sometimes twice a year, sometimes three times a year, it was whatever) was common historical knowledge, no matter how hard that idea had been to wrap his head around at first.
It's not from him, idiot. Stop. Stop it, now.
"Maybe I do have an admirer," he shrugged.
He slipped it over his head anyway, the warm weight instantly enveloping him like a hug.
"Do you read?" Sam asked, forehead wrinkled in a confused frown. "I ain't never seen you come within two metres of a book."
Steve crouched down to scoop up the book that had fallen to the floor. It was a paperback, new and unbent, with an illustration of a rabbit on the cover.
"Alice in Wonderland," he murmured, standing back to his feet. "I always meant to read this."
"So, I'm gonna take that as a no, you don't read."
"I read," he argued weakly. "Sometimes." He flicked through the pages briefly, eyes catching on the colourful illustrations and sketches scattered throughout. His fingers twitched for a pencil, a craving he hadn't given any thought to since before the war. He placed the book back on the table and pulled the oodie sleeves over his fingers. "Reading just seems less important when the world is in danger."
Natasha raised an eyebrow, a whole argument looking like it was playing behind her eyes, but her expression remained impassive, and her mouth remained shut on the topic. "Speaking of reading," she pulled up a stool and sat down, leaning her elbows on the table. "Have you read the news, lately?"
"We saw it this morning," Steve said, sighing heavily. "Mind shedding some light?"
Natasha's lips twitched grimly. "We're all over it. Unfortunately, we're not all over it as fast as I would like to be, so you gotta hang low for a while."
"What have you found?" Sam asked, pulling up a chair next to Natasha's.
"Our latest intel has tracked the rumour back to a known HYDRA operative. They all scattered after SHIELD collapsed, but they're still in contact with each other. We haven't been able to shut down the communication yet, and we haven't been able to sway the media away from it, either."
"Lucky us."
Natasha hummed. "Maybe it is. Like I said, stay low. No one knows you're here. There's no real trial, so you can't get arrested anytime soon, Steve. Take a rest."
"So everyone keeps saying," he frowned, leaning his back against the table and crossing his legs. "I don't know how I'm supposed to rest when HYDRA is still active, and Bucky is still out there."
Natasha looked at him, eyes soft with empathy. "I know, Steve. We're doing everything we can."
Steve bit his lip, feeling like the scum of the earth. "I know you are. I'm sorry. I'm just-"
"Tired," she finished gently. "Go get some sleep, Steve. We'll talk tomorrow."
Steve nodded slightly. He had more self-preservation than to argue with Natasha. "You're sticking around, then?"
She shrugged, looking over briefly at Sam. "For a little while."
Steve felt like he was maybe missing something, but he smiled wearily at them both and scooped up his book before trailing out of the kitchen and up the stairs.
His bed was too soft under his back after months of living in cheap hotels and the backseat of the car, and Steve had counted ninety-four divots in the ceiling before his eyes slipped shut.
[-]
Apparently, a sunny day was a rarity in Washington D.C, even in the springtime.
Steve woke to rain pattering a song against his windows, grey clouds obscuring the sun and masking the time of day.
He sighed heavily and just lay there for a few minutes, trying to muster the energy to move.
He remembered when he had first been given this body, how he had run without wheezing and felt like he could run for ever and ever and never grow tired. How he had trained his body every day, revelling in tis strength, and its agility, and its ability to fight all the bad things in the world, and to stand for the good.
He wondered what had changed.
He figured it probably happened somewhere between losing Bucky and waking up to find he had lost everything else, too.
Now, he ran to run away, and because he could tell himself he was running towards something. But it was getting harder and harder to see what that something was.
His eyes shut again against his will, and he draped his hand over the bedside table, flapping it around until it found the book he had left there.
He picked it up and brought it up to his face, knocking it gently against his forehead.
"Yes, I read, Sam," he muttered grumpily, forcing his eyes open and flicking to the first page. "I read plenty."
[-]
Alice was swimming through a pool of her own tears when Sam knocked gently on the door and asked if he wanted to meet downstairs.
Steve breathed in deep and nodded, swinging his legs out of bed and running his hands over his hair.
"Yeah, I'll be there in a second."
Sam's footsteps disappeared down the stairs, and Steve reached for the T-shirt and jeans lying abandoned on the floor, pulling them on.
After a second of hesitation, he also grabbed the paperback and tucked it into his back pocket.
Downstairs, Natasha was sipping coffee, her chair balanced precariously on two legs. A file was open on the table in front of her. A file Steve knew instantly by sight, and probably by heart.
He poured himself a mug of coffee and went to sit next to her, pulling the file closer.
He thought at some point he might become desensitised to it, but that moment had not yet come. His heart twisted and he felt sick as his eyes scanned the first page, tracing the familiar lines of Bucky's face, flat and frozen under the glass.
He sighed heavily and mimicked Natasha's chair balancing act to give his mind something to occupy itself that wasn't Bucky, Bucky, Bucky.
"Right," Sam's voice announced his return to the kitchen. He was holding a plate piled high with bacon, which he ceremoniously placed in the middle of the table. "Where are we at?"
Natasha swiped a piece of bacon and licked the grease delicately off her fingers. "It's like you said, none of the leads we've found have led to anything conclusive. Most of the HYDRA bases I've scouted are empty, and there's no talk of the Winter Solider on any of the communications."
Steve grit his teeth. "Is it possible they've already put him back under?"
Natasha nodded. "Possible, definitely. But I don't know where. There're bases overseas, but he was already unstable when he was fighting with you. I doubt they would have risked transporting him far."
Steve blinked back his frustration. It felt like they had been moving in circles that got no smaller or closer to the truth no matter how many laps they ran. He flicked the file open to a page at random and scanned the entries.
Records upon records upon records of experiments.
May 22, 1952. Asset is responding to conditioning after full wipe. Shows signs of instability at six hours. Cryofreeze remains only successful method of halting aging process.
July 5, 1954. Pain tolerance extended beyond four hours of stimulation. Muscle memory intact.
January 1967. Pain tolerance extended beyond…
December 1980. Pain tolerance extended beyond…
1992. Pain tolerance extended beyond…
2001…
2004…
Steve shut the file with a slam of his hand. He already knew every word on the pages anyway.
"What are our options?" He didn't want to hear that there were none. There couldn't be none.
"If he's still with them, he'll be somewhere that has the facilities for cryofreeze. That narrows it down a little. Maybe this media storm will work in our favour, ratting out some HYDRA agents and locations. They can't be careful forever; they're bound to let something slip."
"That sounds like a waiting game to me."
Natasha smiled thinly. "I'm afraid so."
Steve nodded slowly, swallowing back the urge to get up and drive aimlessly to the next city, and the next, and the next.
He didn't know how to do nothing.
He hadn't felt so helpless since his lungs had been unreliable, and his spine too weak to carry him upright.
"We do that, then," he said, taking a piece of bacon and guzzling it down. God, he was always so starving. "We get every whisper we can, ears to every single leak to the media, and we track where they are."
"We aren't doing anything, Steve," Natasha raised her eyebrow pointedly at him. "Stark already has eyes and ears everywhere. There's nothing more you can do for now."
Sam clapped a hand to his shoulder, reminding Steve to breathe. "I know it's hard, Steve. But this is the best chance we've got. We'll move as soon as we hear something."
Steve felt a little like he was the one swimming in his own pool of tears, barely straining his head above the water line. "Yeah," he muttered to his bacon. "I know."
Natasha sighed, looking at him like she understood the weight cresting along his shoulders. "If you leave the house, remember to wear a disguise."
Steve heard the unsaid message. Get outside, Steve.
He thought of the lethargy that morning, the heaviness in his limbs and the effort it took to roll out of bed. None of those were promising signs for his own mental health, if the things Sam was going on about in his ear constantly were to be listened to.
"Wanna come with?" he asked them.
Sam shook his head, grabbing a handful of bacon and shoving it into his mouth, chewing loudly. "Nah, man. I'm gonna clean up this house a little. I'll leave the garden for you to do later." He grinned, winking at Steve.
"How generous of you."
Natasha smirked. "Go clear your head, Steve."
It was an order for Steve to spend some time alone not running away from his own thoughts, Steve knew. He both loved and hated Natasha for her ability to know exactly what he needed when he didn't want to do it.
"Where's the baseball cap?"
[-]
The air was still thick from the earlier rain as Steve ambled amongst the puddles.
The sky was grey, clouds low and heavy with mist.
Steve kicked at a pebble on the path, sending it skittering twenty metres. There were people out. Dog walkers, mostly, though some screaming children and loitering teens reminded Steve that it was a weekend.
The neighbourhood was sprawling towards the city edges and busy, but it felt like a bubble that Steve couldn't pop. He breathed cold air deep into his lungs, hoping to dispel some of the claustrophobia. His hands were clenched in his pockets, a restless energy that wouldn't quite let go.
He kicked another pebble.
This one made it thirty, stopping just short of a big golden retriever, who leant down to lick it as he jumped happily through the puddles, its owner leaning as far away from the sprays of water as he could get whilst still holding onto the leash.
Steve huffed a small laugh, just a breath, really, but it reminded his heart to slow down a little.
The world hadn't changed all that much, and yet it had changed all the same. Had kept turning in the years that he had stopped.
People wore baggy clothes, now. No suits in sight on anyone but professional workers. The streets were simultaneously cleaner and yet more cluttered with rubbish than he remembered, and nearly every dog looked like its owner. Kids squealed and laughed in the playgrounds, but parents hovered around them, clutching paper coffee cups, and wearing black puffer jackets. The trees still blossomed. Their leaves still fell.
The clouds still rained.
Steve kept walking.
He stopped when he passed a train station, eyeing the map and the prices printed on the wall. Maybe the bubble would pop if he went just a little further.
He travelled twelve stops closer to the city, head lowered under his cap and feet tucked close under his chair to give the illusion that he was much smaller. He watched buildings and train tracks whiz past the window, graffiti colouring the grey, and tall trees making wooden fences lean and creak to accommodate them.
There were two girls sitting in the seats in front of him, talking about an assignment that they hadn't started yet. The old man behind him was rustling a newspaper as he flipped the pages, snorting and huffing at the headlines. The woman across from the girls was scrolling through her phone, dark circles under her eyes.
Steve got up and left the train when it pulled into a station on a colourful street that he had never heard the name of. Maybe getting lost would make him feel less trapped.
He tried to keep his head down as much as he could as he weaved through the lazy Sunday afternoon traffic, but found that people barely glanced at him anyway. Just another face moving through the motions.
It was disconcerting.
Steve had never in his life not attracted attention. Whether it was because he wheezed with every breath and was the loudest in the room, or because he was wearing a garishly coloured suit, people had always stared. For better or for worse.
But now, he could almost pass as unnoticeable.
He wondered how long it would last.
When the sky started spitting again, he chose a cosy looking café to duck into, following the enticing scent of coffee beans and pastry. He stood in the steadily growing line of rain-escapees and ordered, then grabbed his number and a table before all the seats were taken up.
An array of mismatched paintings hung on the wall, depicting cartoon characters and flowers and bridges and fashion designs. It made Steve smile a little. There was also a shelf stacked with classic children's books and eclectic looking teapots, and he eyed some of the titles, thoughts drifting to the battered stories that Bucky forever had on him between the ages of five and seventeen.
He wondered when Bucky had stopped carting them around.
Probably around the same time he'd started catching girls' attention, he thought. No need for entertainment when your life was suddenly full of first-hand experience.
Steve had carted around his own sketchbook right up until Bucky had left for basic. The itching in his fingers to draw had diminished quickly after that, and then there simply hadn't been time.
Then he had died.
And woke up again.
And been thrown straight back into the fight because if he wasn't fighting then who even was he now that everyone else was gone?
"Latte for Grant?"
Steve looked up and smiled at the waitress as she placed a mug in front of him.
"Thank you," he said politely, lifting the mug and breathing in the heavenly scent. He felt his brain perk up a little. Sam was right, he really had not been sleeping enough.
Another waitress serving the table next to him looked over right as Steve glanced her way, and almost spilled the tea she was serving straight into the customer's lap. She caught herself, managing to spill the tea on the table instead, and apologised to the confused customer profusely. But her eyes kept darting back towards Steve, even as she apologised again and hastily weaved between the tables to grab a cleaning cloth.
Steve ducked his head down. He didn't think he recognised her from anywhere. It was highly likely that she had recognised him, though. He fidgeted in his chair. Maybe it was time to move.
He chugged down his coffee as fast as he was able and left a generous tip on the table, mourning the warmth of the shop as he stepped into the drizzly street.
So much for blending in.
He had only walked a block before he noticed that the girl was trailing him. She was clumsy, dressed in bright yellow boots and a matching jacket, pushing her curls out of her eyes every ten steps or so. She carried a patchwork bag that knocked against her leg loudly.
Probably not a threat, then.
But Natasha had taught him that one could never be too careful.
He kept walking until he reached a quiet side street scattered with restaurants that weren't yet open for the evening. He slowed down and let the girl almost catch up to him before spinning around and bracing slightly, apprehending an attack.
"Who are you?" he demanded.
The girl stopped in her tracks, eyes wide and caught. "Oh. Um. No one."
Steve didn't buy that for one second. "Why are you following me?"
"Following you? Who, me?" the girl pointed to herself, laughing a little awkwardly. "That's… no I wasn't."
Steve raised an eyebrow, just like Natasha did whenever she called him out on his bullshit.
"I mean, maybe, like… a little." The girl admitted. "But not in a creepy way!" She cringed at her own words, shrinking back. "Like that's not exactly what stalker would say," she muttered to herself, shaking her head slightly.
Steve felt his stance relax as he blinked, vaguely lost. "Sorry, who are you?" he repeated, the question far more confused than demanding this time around.
The girl's wide eyes looked back at him, and he could see her searching for an answer. Her gaze flicked up to the roofline above them, then back to Steve. She shrugged. "No one important. My name's Eliza." She smiled, forced and slightly hysteric, and offered her hand to shake. "It's lovely to meet you…?" she trailed off, raising her eyebrows in invitation.
Steve narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "Grant," he shook her hand.
The girl deflated instantly. "Shit, I'm so sorry. I thought you were… someone else."
She was a fan, then.
Steve hoped she hadn't had time to call the local news.
"It's all good," Steve smiled back, wondering how quickly he could leave this conversation now that the girl thought she had made a mistake. For the thousandth time in his short (but way too long) life, he hated the manners his mother had drilled into him that refused to let him leave a conversation without a proper farewell.
"Well, it's lovely to meet you all the same, Grant. Please have a stunning day." She backed away a few steps, waving her hand in a small, awkward manner that Steve interpreted as a goodbye of some form.
He nodded. "It was a lovely coffee, thank you."
"Anytime." Eliza was still backing up, but this time her eyes were back on the roofline.
Steve turned his head to follow her gaze, brow furrowed in confusion.
"There's no one there!" Eliza's voice was half an octave too high. Steve raised an eyebrow at her, then looked back to the empty roof.
He had spent so much time around professional spies that it was almost jarring how bad she was at lying.
"Who's on the roof?" He tried to keep his voice nonchalant and casual and not at all supremely suspicious.
He thought he may have failed spectacularly.
"Why would someone be on the roof?" Eliza laughed forcefully. "That's… that's absurd."
"Is it?"
She nodded, eyes still fixed to the spot above them. "Yes."
His enhanced ears picked up a small gust, like the wind had decided to give an exasperated sigh, coming from exactly where Eliza was looking. Her eyebrows danced around like she was having a silent conversation with the sky.
Steve's defences climbed back up, the hairs on his neck prickling. Was he surrounded? By the world's worst criminals?
Did that make them more, or less dangerous?
He thought of the dumb bullies that used to beat him to a pulp after he confronted them for letting their mouths run about the girls in his class.
More dangerous, he decided, tensing. Why had he left the house without Sam?
Eliza sighed at no one, rolled her eyes, and took a step back towards Steve. He backed up almost on instinct.
"Would you like a hot chocolate?" was the insane question that left her lips.
Steve breathed in and out, once. Twice. Waited for it to make sense. "What?"
"A hot chocolate," she smiled.
Steve blinked. "I just had coffee," he reminded her.
"Oh," her face dropped a little. "So you did." She worried her bottom lip. "But you really need to try this hot chocolate. It's the best in the city. And I have this- uh- friend, who really likes this particular hot chocolate and I think you might really wanna get some hot chocolate with them, so…"
Steve scrunched his eyebrows and tilted his head, wondering if this was the time that a sack would get thrown over his head and the kidnapping would start. "I'm sorry, ma'am," he said slowly. "I generally make it a rule not to get hot chocolate with people I only just met."
"Oh, no of course! That makes sense. Loads of sense. But, Mr. Grant," she said his name like she was in on some conspiracy, and it set him on edge. "I really think you don't want to miss out on this hot chocolate." Her eyes were staring him down, part hopeful, part entreating, like she knew something that he didn't and was just waiting for him to read her mind.
Sarah Rogers surely could never have dreamed up this scenario when she was teaching Steve the general rules of polite society. Manners be damned.
He backed up a step, pointing his thumb over his shoulder. "I'm actually, uh- late. For a thing. Very late. So, I'm just gonna…" he gestured behind him. "I'm just gonna go."
He had already spun around and hastily walked half-way down the street when Eliza called after him to "Wait! No, please, I need your help!" and he only felt slightly guilty for pretending that he hadn't heard her.
"Look what you've done now!" he heard her proclaim to no-one. "That could've been your best chance. Get off the roof and stop lurking, you big dummy."
Steve rounded the corner and poked his head back around, curiosity peaking despite himself.
A man dropped down from the roof in one smooth jump and faced Eliza, his shoulders slumped inwards a little as he said something quietly. His hands were tucked into the pocket of his hoodie, where a small orange head peeked out.
That's a cat, he thought inanely.
What the hell had he landed himself in the middle of?
The man's hand glinted silver when he pulled it out of the pocket to scratch at the cat's head, and Steve's brain processed it as a watch before he realised-
His hand was silver.
The man's ears must have been as enhanced as his own, because he spun at Steve's soft gasp, blue eyes wide with fear as they snapped to his.
Steve felt the world still around him, his feet wooden and glued to the cobblestones. His mouth opened against his will, voice croaking soundlessly.
Bucky.
Quick as lightning, Bucky tucked the cat back into his pocket and scooped Eliza up around the waist before turning and scaling the wall one-armed.
Steve's muscles snapped back into action.
"Bucky!" he called, sprinting down the street. "Bucky! Wait. Wait, please!"
His hands scrabbled over loose bricks as he hoisted himself up to the roof , head whipping around desperately to catch sight of where they had gone.
Only pigeons disturbed the unmoving skyline.
His heart pounded, thrumming in his veins, his breathing at a tempo much too fast for what the climb had warranted. His eyes burned and his chest squeezed like asthma was making its grand comeback, and they sky was so grey, grey, grey.
"Bucky!" he called again, voice ripping from his throat.
Horns beeped and the pigeons squawked, and only a distant busking violinist answered.
[-]
Alice in Wonderland stared innocently back at him from where he had thrown it carelessly onto the bed.
"Why did he send you to me?" he asked the book.
The book did not reply.
Steve huffed, grabbing it and flicking through all the pages for the tenth time in the last two minutes, searching for a scribble, an underline, anything, to say that it was a message of some sort, that it was from him.
From Bucky.
"I'm not going crazy, this time," he muttered.
"'Oh, you can't help that,' said the Cat: 'we're all mad here. I'm mad, you're mad.'"
Steve groaned, slamming the book shut on the picture of the catless grin.
[-]
Sam was in the middle of scrubbing the shower when Steve found the gardening gloves and offered to help-out outside, thinking it might give him something tangible to focus on. Something to stop him from tearing the city apart looking for Bucky, who had run away from him. Conclusion: he probably did not want to be found right this second.
That was fine.
Steve could be patient.
"That's very domestic of you," Sam grinned, laughing at the sight of Steve with his sun hat and weeding fork. "Knock yourself out."
Steve readjusted his hat, feeling more than a little called out. "Yeah, I guess I figured we'll be here a while, so I really should do half of the fixing."
Sam paused his scrubbing. "You not planning on running off anymore?"
Steve opened his mouth to tell him that no, he wouldn't do such a thing, thank you very much, but promptly closed his mouth when he realised that yes, that was exactly what he had been thinking that morning.
"The fresh air changed my mind," he shrugged.
"Uhuh," Sam mused dubiously. "I'm sure it did. I'll grill you later when I'm not in such a compromising position."
Steve grinned as innocently as he was able and saluted with the fork. "Weeds. I'm gonna-" he pointed aimlessly, "-weeds."
Natasha found him outside and flicked the back of his broad-brimmed hat.
"You know it's raining, right?"
Steve sat back on his ankles and wiped the back of his gardening glove across his brow. "I'm aware. But your sun is broken. It burns things so much faster than it used to."
Natasha smirked. "Blame the hairspray." She plopped down gracefully next to him and picked at a sprouting daisy. "Where did you go?"
Steve looked back to the patch of weeds he was busy pulling up. "Nowhere in particular."
He felt Natasha's eyes on the side of his head. "Sam said you're not running away anymore. What changed?"
Steve sighed. "Why does everyone think I was gonna run away?"
Natasha raised a perfectly manicured brow.
"Okay, fine. I wasn't sure if I'd be able to stay put. But I was going to try, alright?"
"I believe you," Natasha said, her smile small and sad. "But I also believed you couldn't do it."
"Jeez, thanks for the degree of confidence."
"It's not a bad thing, Steve," she said quietly, inspecting her daisy. "It just means you care. Maybe too much, and maybe about a person that we don't even know if we can save, but you care. It says a lot."
Steve swallowed the impulse to tell her that, actually, Bucky was not frozen in some HYDRA facility in need of saving, but was instead roaming the streets of Washington D.C with a girl in a yellow coat.
Not yet.
He had to find him first. He had to find him and find out what was going on and make sure he wouldn't just get dragged straight back into what remained of SHIELD and their processes. He remembered waking up in the white room, the game on the radio just not-quite-right, being sent back into the fight as soon as they realised he could still throw a punch.
It wasn't that he didn't trust Sam and Natasha. It was just-
He squirmed a little under Natasha's gaze. He didn't trust them that far.
He tried not to let the guilt show on his face.
Not yet.
He would tell them soon.
He would.
[-]
"I need to see Bucky."
His patience had lasted exactly two days.
Eliza didn't even look up from the milk she was frothing. "I have no idea who you're talking about, Grant."
Steve sighed. "I'm sorry, okay? You were a stranger that was following me and I'm apparently a fugitive, what was I supposed to do?"
Eliza grimaced. "Okay, fine. Point. I'm sorry, I was just trying to help."
"Well, now you can be super helpful, and help me see Bucky."
Eliza looked up, her expression apologetic. "I'm under strict orders to not allow that to happen."
"From whom?"
Eliza raised a brow. "Take a guess."
Steve ignored how his heart dropped somewhere around his pinky toe. "Does he-" he swallowed the anxiety roiling in his gut, "-does he remember?"
Eliza eyed him contemplatively, her face not giving anything away.
"I'm sorry, Steven," she said eventually, voice soft and wistful, like she really meant it. "He told me he doesn't want to see you. But I promise you, he's okay. Well…" she scrunched her nose a little. "Mostly okay."
Steve carefully smoothed his expression and nodded. "I understand that, but I really need to see him. Please."
Eliza shook her head. "I'll talk to him. But I can't promise you anything."
Steve let out his breath in a rush. He didn't want to think about the fact that Bucky not only had run away like Steve was the bogey man, but had verbally confirmed that Steve was not someone he wanted to see.
At all.
He told himself it was just because Bucky was still recovering. He must be scared; and confused. But he would be happy to see Steve once they sat down and talked properly. He had to be.
He didn't know what he'd do if he wasn't.
"Thank you, Eliza."
She finished the milk and poured it into a cup, pushing it over the counter towards him. "Notice how I didn't lie about my name?" she smirked. "It's on the house, Mr. Grant."
[-]
The next day, Eliza wasn't in the café.
Nor the day after.
Steve finished Alice in Wonderland, the first thing he'd read cover-to-cover that wasn't Bucky's file since back when Bucky used to read to him when he was bedridden and feverish and hallucinating pirates and other stupid fantasies like Bucky leaning close enough to kiss.
It made him laugh under his breath, ridiculous and strangely captivating.
[-]
"I feel you got the worse end of the bargain," Sam called from the front porch, watching as Steve moved on to a new patch of unweeded grass. "It's mayhem out here."
Steve pulled out another weed, adding it to the bin pile. He liked the way the repetition of it kept his mind busy and stopped him from pacing tracks into his carpet.
"I don't mind it," he called back. "Maybe I'll plant you a veggie patch, for your weird healthy cravings."
Sam laughed, but Steve wasn't kidding.
[-]
The barista at the café winked at him when he asked if Eliza would be in that day.
"She's a cutie, ain't she?"
Steve narrowed his eyes. He did not like the way this guy was trailing his eyes over Steve one bit. He would also put money on the leer being a common occurrence towards his coworkers, too.
"Leering makes people uncomfortable," he told the man. "And it's extremely disrespectful."
The barista leaned back, blinking in shock.
"Thank you for understanding," Steve said, reaching out to grab his coffee and left some cash straight on the bench.
He would check again tomorrow.
[-]
It turned out that the hardware store sold more than just shovels and sleepers.
He realised he was in trouble as soon as he wandered down aisle four and was confronted with seedlings the size of-
Well.
Seedlings.
Cute and quaint, if such words could be used to describe a plant. And before Steve even knew what he was doing, he had a trolley full of succulents and herbs and baby tomato and zucchini plants.
Then there were the baby lettuces.
"Oh, stop," he whispered to himself. Why were they so tiny?
Seven of them went into the trolley, too. All different colours.
[-]
Natasha scrutinised the freshly dug patch where grass used to live, now overtaken with a neatly raised garden bed. The lettuces were planted in a colour coordinated row, evenly spaced and soaking up the patchy sunshine.
"I am uncertain whether or not to be concerned," was all she said.
Steve fidgeted with his hat. Shrugged self-consciously. "It's useful," he defended weakly. "They'll grow and we'll have vegetables."
"We'll have vegetables," she repeated, deadpan.
Steve bit his lip and nodded. "Yep."
Natasha patted him gently on the back before climbing the stairs to the door.
[-]
"Would you look at that, he does read," Sam marvelled.
Steve glared at him from over the top of the white rabbit.
Yes, he was rereading Maybe-Bucky's book.
No, it was not because it made him smile to think of Maybe-Bucky laughing at the silly pictures and nonsense conversations.
He just found the characters charming, was all.
Sam leaned his elbows against the back of the couch behind Steve. "I was going to go for a run, fancy coming with? I promise to lap you."
Steve smirked, slipping a coffee receipt between the pages to keep his place. "You can try."
[-]
Running with Sam had a comforting familiarity that Steve hadn't realised he had been missing.
He kept his pace slow, grounding himself in the thud, thud, thud of their footsteps, their breaths misting the crisp air before them.
Sam didn't lap him, but neither did he lap Sam. Their steps matched pace around the lake, cutting through the park along the route that Steve had once taken religiously, every day at precisely the same time.
It looked slightly different under the afternoon light, he noticed. The water glittered, looking deceptively warmer, the leaves were a more golden green, and the air was less still, bustling with the sounds of people rushing through their day.
But the sound of feet thudding against the path always stayed the same. As did the way Sam not-so-covertly snuck glances at him as they ran, worry lines in the creases of his face.
"I'm fine, Sam," he said, feeling a bit like a broken record when they stopped for a drink, the park bright with the sound of kids squealing and giggling and the occasional shout of "Don't you dare, Marcus!" from the nearby playground.
"You're not, but okay."
Steve stretched out his calf, staring a hole through his kneecap. He sighed. "You're right. I'm sorry, I'm just not good at talking about it."
Sam nodded and gulped down some water. "You don't say."
Steve huffed a self-deprecating laugh. "Believe it or not, talking about your feelings wasn't all that huge a thing back in my day."
"Spoken like a true old man," Sam grinned, then sobered, his gaze earnest. "But we're living now, Steve. You can talk to me."
Steve roamed his eyes over the trees, unconsciously counting the ones that hadn't gotten the spring memo just yet. They looked bare and stark in contrast to the new green growth reaching for the sunlight around them. "I don't know how I'm feeling."
It felt like the most honest thing he'd said in weeks, and it didn't even make sense.
"Tell me more," Sam tilted his head invitingly, slinging himself down into the grass. "We got time."
The ground was slightly wet against his bare legs when he joined him. He chewed lightly on his lip, wondering how to even find a thread to pull in order to start untangling his thoughts.
"I feel hopeful," he started. That much was true. Bucky was here; somewhere. That was reason enough for hope. "Hopeful but… stuck, I guess. And I feel like I've been trying so hard to make everything okay again for so long that-" he sighed, head tilting back to glimpse the clouds that were wisping their way across the blue. "Maybe I'm scared of what'll happen when I stop."
Sam was quiet, matching his breaths to Steve's.
"It's easier to keep moving than to think about everything that's not here anymore. Easier to fix things than to try and make sense of the things that… can't be fixed."
Sam hummed in agreement. "Yeah, I get you. Have you ever really let yourself say goodbye to the life you had? Back then?"
Steve lay back in the grass, eyes trained determinedly on the sky so he wouldn't look over and see Sam's eyes, probably warm and understanding and so sympathetic. "Not really," he admitted quietly. "It was just… gone, you know? And then I didn't have time to miss it. There was a city to save. Then another mission. Then a team to train. Then the world to save again. Then Bucky."
Steve could feel the weight of Sam's eyes on the side of his head. "You didn't have time, or you didn't let yourself have time?"
Steve huffed a little, closed his eyes against the unexpected sting that prickled right behind them. "Same difference," he whispered.
"Is it?"
"I hate your dumb questions that make sense."
Sam laughed, lying down next to him in the grass. A beat passed. "You're allowed to grieve, Steve."
"Bucky's still alive," was his knee-jerk response.
"I didn't mean Barnes. Or, not just Barnes, at least. I meant everything. Your life."
"I'm still alive too, last I checked," he stated, smiling wryly.
"Are you being purposely obtuse right now?"
Steve reached up a hand to cover his eyes. "Maybe?"
"Yeah, you're a dickhead."
Steve hummed. "Maybe."
"You're allowed to grieve, you relic," Sam repeated. "You've been given the shittiest ball of shitballs to hold these last few years. Hell, even before then. Goddamn World War II. Nobody is blaming you for not being okay, man."
"People needed Captain America, and he's supposed to be a hero."
"Captain American isn't real," Sam said, deadly serious enough to draw Steve's gaze to him. "Steve Rogers is. And Steve is a person. Steve is not perfect. Steve cannot be perfect."
Steve swallowed. Blinked back a hot wetness from his eyes. "What use is the serum if I can't even keep myself together, Sam?" His voice was smaller than he meant it to be.
"You've done so much with it already. I think you're allowed to rest for a while. Heal. Just like I know you'd give the chance for anyone else to do."
Steve smiled grimly. "The serum was supposed to heal me."
Sam rolled his eyes, nudging Steve in the side with his elbow. "Well, I'm sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but it didn't heal your ugly mug."
It startled a laugh out of Steve, and he shoved him back. "Asshole."
"Just calling it how I see it," Sam's smile was rudely proud.
Steve smiled and slowly pushed himself to his feet, holding out his hand to help Sam up. "Last one back has to cook?" he offered the challenge, grinning innocently.
Sam narrowed his eyes, then relaxed and shrugged. "You know I don't fall for your-" he cut his sentence off and launched suddenly at Steve, tackling him back to the ground before scrambling up and taking off running. "And Natasha wants seafood, so you better chef up!" he called back over his shoulder.
Steve sat up slowly, blew some grass away from his eye, and watched him run.
He'd give him a thirty second head start.
Just to keep things interesting.
[-]
"On your left."
"Hah. Jokes on you, I love making seafood!"
"No, you don't!" Steve called out to the side.
He heard Sam huff and the rate of the footsteps behind him picked up slightly. "No, I don't," he agreed grumpily.
Steve thought it was hardly fair that Natasha cared so much about her seafood that she practically cooked it herself, in the end, wielding a spatula threateningly as she tried to stop Sam from overcooking her precious prawns.
[-]
Steve caught Eliza just as she was clocking off.
"Any luck?" he asked, breath held high in his chest.
Eliza frowned apologetically. "I'm sorry. He's just not ready."
All the air felt like it had vacated the building. He worked his jaw slightly, not sure what words wanted to leave his tongue the most. "He's alright though, right?"
"Yes. I promise. I'm sure he'll come around."
"How long?"
Eliza looked at him, eyes full of pity. "I don't know."
"I could find him myself, you know."
Eliza's look was scarily reminiscent of Natasha's. "But you won't."
Steve deflated. Fuck. No, he wouldn't. She was right.
"You love him too much for that."
Steve coughed awkwardly, running a hand across the back of his head. "It's not really like that…" he trailed off at Eliza's raised eyebrow. "It's not," he defended.
"You keep telling yourself that, Mr. Grant."
Steve rolled his eyes. "You can use my name, you know. Just don't say it too loud."
Eliza smirked. "I am calling you your name."
Steve couldn't even muster the energy to glare. He sighed. "Please, Eliza. Can you try one more time? I know everything must be a lot for him right now; I understand, I do. but I know if he could just see me- if we could just talk- it would be alright. Please."
Eliza worried at her lip, considering him closely.
"Okay," she breathed, after a pause. "Meet at the coffeeshop one street over at noon, next Tuesday. Two Hens and a Pig, it's called. Give me a week to convince him."
Steve nodded, feeling air fly back to his lungs and supply much needed oxygen to his brain.
Maybe too much oxygen.
He felt slightly light-headed with relief.
"Thank you," he said earnestly, catching her hand and shaking it over and over. "Thank you, thank you."
"And you will be on your best behaviour," she warned, eyes serious. "I won't make him stay if he doesn't want to."
Steve swallowed and nodded again. "Of course. It'll be fine, I promise."
She didn't look entirely convinced, but she still smiled at him, small and hopeful. "I really hope it is."
[-]
A week was a long time to not go stir-crazy.
He tried to keep as much of his anticipation under wraps as he could, throwing himself into maintaining his new garden and weeding the entire back yard with full force.
Natasha and Sam were getting suspicious, he knew. But he would tell them as soon as this meeting happened. He couldn't risk Bucky before then.
So, he ran with Sam.
He watched old French movies with Natasha.
He went back to the hardware store once.
Or twice.
Or maybe twenty too many times.
It was only Thursday, and Steve had resorted to tentatively picking up a grey lead and was busy scratching unpractised lines into the margins of Alice in Wonderland when the call came in.
"It's Stark," Natasha announced, fetching up random pieces of combat clothing from the washing basket. "Robots in New York."
"Why is it always New York?" Sam muttered.
Steve was near bouncing on his toes, lighting up at the thought of an actual fight to channel his restlessness into. "Am I allowed to come?"
Natasha nodded, short and sharp. "Pretty sure an emergency trumps not being seen by media. Sorry in advance for the shitstorm that'll hit us after this, though."
Steve tilted his head to the side, pretended to contemplate for exactly three seconds. "We'll deal with it when we deal with it. Suit up."
[-]
Steve liked the calmness that always washed over him before a mission. The complete focus and stillness it forced his mind into, every breath measured, and every detail laid out before him.
He should never forget, though. Fighting wasn't just about being a hero. It wasn't just about running away from your humanity.
People got hurt sometimes.
Sometimes, it didn't feel worth it.
"Sam!" he screamed as a bot flew into him mid-air, tearing with its metallic talons all the way down Sam's side as an electric shock disabled his suit.
He raced towards where he was plummeting, jumping over flipped cars, and avoiding the craters in the road. He watched, terrified, as Tony only just managed to get a good enough hold of him to slow his fall before he crashed wings first into the cement.
"Sam!" he breathed, voice raw as he slid into his side.
Sam groaned, his hands covering the tear that traced over his ribs and down past his hip. "Goddamn stupid robots," he muttered darkly.
Steve breathed a sigh of relief, placing his hands on top of Sam's to help stop the flow of blood where the wound was gushing the most. "We'll get you fixed up, buddy, don't worry."
"I'm more worried about my wings," Sam complained breathily. "I only just got them serviced."
Steve chuckled wetly, looked up to catch Tony's eye and nodded at him, letting him know he could handle it for now.
Bots were still raining down around them like flies as the Hulk picked them straight out of the sky and Clink knocked them down with electric arrows, loosing three at a time with deadly accuracy.
Steve looped Sam's good arm over his neck and used the leverage to shuffle them both under the mediocre cover of a shop awning. He unzipped the top of his suit and ripped off a strip of his shirt, using it as best he could as a makeshift bandage.
The wound was deep- really deep- and Steve swallowed back a wave of nausea, flash-fast images of legs and arms and faces blown off, bodies lined up in ditches, and the ear clattering sound of exploding shells crawling through his mind.
He gritted his teeth to ground him in the now.
Breathe, Rogers.
The sound of whirring behind him warned him of the bot a split second before it struck against his back, and Steve cried out, twisting, and ripped the bot in half with his hands.
"God, they sting," he shook the shock from his hand, which was smarting fiercly.
"I got stung by a wasp, once," Sam laughed weakly. His face was looking too pale for Steve's liking. He put pressure back onto his wound and surveyed the positions of the rest of the team, calling briefly over comms for an evacuation right now please and thank you.
"Yeah? You reckon it hurt more than these stupid things?"
"Definitely," Sam answered. "And it didn't even have the decency to die afterwards. Bees are so much more tragic. I can't be mad at something that spends its last moments sticking its butt into an offender."
Steve smiled down at him, laughing under his breath. "I don't think you should be mad at wasps either, just because mother nature gave them the upper hand."
Sam closed his eyes, words slurring slightly. "I will be mad at wasps 'til the day I die, Steve."
"Which is not going to be today," Steve reminded him sternly.
The tell-tale sound of Tony's blasters flew past them, depositing him a few feet from their location. Steve sagged in relief.
"He's losing blood, Tony. We need to get him to med," he called out.
"On it."
Tony leaned down and shifted Sam into his arms as best as he could before launching off towards the tower.
Steve stood, watching them weave through the slowly dwindling bots and debris falling from the buildings, really noticing for the first time the amount of damage that had been done to the unsuspecting streets.
Well, damn.
The city council was gonna kill them.
[-]
Steve had been ordered to return to D.C before anyone could learn of his location.
Media shitstorm, were the words Natasha had warned him with, a firm eyebrow raised to convey her seriousness, and her hand gripping Sam's loosely as he slept.
Back in Sam's empty house, Steve iced the shiner on his cheek that was so impressive he thought it might even last a day or two, and stared out the window at the trees which were slowly losing their blossoms in favour of small green leaves.
Sam was all cleared from medical two days later, and the sight of him stumbling through the front door, weight leaning heavily against Natasha, felt like the first real breath he had pulled since the battle.
"Good to see they didn't mess your face up too bad," he smiled, greeting them with a careful hug to Sam's good side.
"They'd have to do a lot worse than set robots on it to get me anywhere near your breed of ugly," Sam huffed, squeezing him back just a little longer than usual. "Good to be home, though."
Steve twisted to loop himself under Sam's unoccupied arm, and with Natasha, walked him slowly over to the couch.
"I went to the video store and picked out your favourites," Steve admitted. "Even though after I rented them out, I realised we could probably have just used your fancy streamer thing."
"It's called Netflix," Sam grinned, eyeing the impressive pile of adventure movies, intermixed with the occasional chick flick, because Sam was a sucker for romance. "Thanks for the thought, though. I like this better. Feels like being a kid again."
"Maybe for you," Steve laughed. "It feels distinctly like being ninety-four to me."
"I'm assuming we're watching Jurassic Park first, right?" Natasha said, falling into the couch close to Sam and pointing the remote at the television. "Because I will settle for nothing less."
"I'll get the popcorn," Steve offered.
[-]
Tuesday came simultaneously all too soon, and all too slowly.
Sam was still couch-ridden, and they had completed marathons of The Lord of The Rings and Star Wars and Jurassic Park and Steve thought his eyeballs might just fall out.
He remembered the wonder he had felt when moving illustrations had been played at a theatre cheap enough for him and Bucky to afford. The way the colours had danced across the screen had left him entranced, completely in awe, and determined to be the next great artist. Bucky had always just smiled knowingly, like he never doubted for a second Steve could do it.
Now he could barely make a straight line unless it was with lettuces.
And even those were a little more wonky than he had first thought, as proved by Natasha and a ruler and a smug smirk.
But Tuesday was here, and Sam was snoring loudly on the couch, and Natasha was curled up in the armchair next to him, a colourful afghan thrown over her knees and a steaming mug of tea in her hands. Steve couldn't recall a time when he had seen her look so casual and soft.
He told Natasha that he was going to go for a walk, and after a warning to keep your head down he was walking the familiar route to the train station, his feet almost stumbling as he fought to slow himself down whilst his heart raced the kilometres ahead.
Two Hens and a Pig was mostly unremarkable, with a pale blue painted sign out the front and a few knobbly looking wooden chairs and tables visible through the front windows.
Steve breathed in deep and leaned against the exterior wall, just out of sight.
Bucky was in there.
He was so close.
He noticed his hands were shaking, so he shoved them into his jeans pockets, ordering his brain to shut up and calm down and stop panicking, it'll be fine.
It would be fine.
"You're ridiculous, Rogers," he scoffed quietly at himself. He had been doing nothing but hope and hope and hope for this moment for the past five months, but now that it was here, he was gripped by a sudden and wrenching uncertainty.
What if he was nothing like the Bucky he remembered?
Scratch that. Of course, he would be nothing like the Bucky he remembered. It didn't change anything. Steve wanted him back no matter what form he took.
But would Bucky want him?
He had obtusely ignored the whisper in his ear that Eliza's apologetic "He doesn't want to see you," had planted, so sure that once they sat down face-to-face, everything would fall into place, just like it always had with them.
Easy as breathing.
He was only now realising how naïve and ignorant that thought had been.
If Bucky didn't want Steve around, was he doing the wrong thing, asking for this? Was he doing the wrong thing, expecting Bucky to be someone that maybe he couldn't be, anymore?
He had always prided himself on his ability to see the right thing and to stand for it; but really, what was he standing for here other than plain and transparent selfishness?
He needed Bucky.
There was no way around that truth.
But that didn't mean that Bucky needed him. God only knew why Bucky had hung around Steve the first time round, after all.
"Shit," he whispered, rubbing his hands roughly down his face.
He drew another breath, in through his nose, out through his mouth.
Bucky was already inside with Eliza. It was seven past twelve.
"Just go inside," he told himself. "Just. Go inside."
A bell tinkled dully as he pushed the door open, and his eyes were immediately drawn to the table in the far corner with a perfect sightline of both the front and back exits, and the three figures lounging in the chairs.
Well, two figures lounging. One of them tensed up like a rubber band the moment Steve entered, blue eyes guarded and wary.
Bucky.
Steve swallowed his heart back down his oesophagus and walked further into the shop, coming to stand awkwardly a few paces away from the table.
"Mr. Grant!" Eliza greeted him warmly, kicking out a chair in invitation. "So kind of you to join us."
Steve noticed that she had a comforting hand on Bucky's arm, which was twitching and flexing slightly under her touch.
"Sorry I'm late," he couldn't tear his eyes off Bucky. Bucky, who wouldn't meet his eyes.
"Well, I'd better head," the other figure, a lady with a fancy purple hat, declared as she pushed back from the table. "Lovely talking to you again, Bucky. And lovely meeting you, Eliza." She turned and nodded at Steve politely. "Mr. Grant."
"It's- uh…" but she was already walking away. "Steve," he finished dumbly, and dropped into the chair.
Eliza's voice pulled his attention back towards her. "Would you like a hot chocolate? I do believe I promised you one."
Steve darted a glance at Bucky, who was gripping his own mug with tense hands, flesh one white around the knuckles.
Trepidation curled in his gut.
"Yes, please," he managed a weak smile.
Bucky whispered something into Eliza's ear as she got up to leave, and she squeezed his shoulder, nodding. "Of course, old man."
Then she was gone, and Steve was left facing the best friend he thought he'd lost forever.
"So, uhh…" Steve cleared his throat awkwardly. "How have you been?"
Bucky chewed on his lip, eyes trained on the table grain. "Fine," he muttered quietly.
"That's… that's good." He smiled over at him, hoping Bucky would glance up.
He didn't.
There was a pause. "Did you get the blanket?"
Steve blinked. "That was from you?"
A small nod. Bucky's eyes were still locked on the table. Everything else about him was tense, coiled.
"I did," Steve said eventually when Bucky remained quiet. "I really like it. And the book. I always meant to read it, so thank you."
Another nod and a slight furrow between his brows, but his eyes didn't stray.
Steve blew out a breath, darting his gaze around the store, hoping for inspiration to strike in any form. Not once in his life had he struggled to come up with conversation topics to share with Bucky.
There was a first time for everything, he supposed.
"Did you read it?" he asked, clutching at straws. Bucky used to love reading, would prattle on and on about whatever pulp fiction or second-hand hardback he had managed to get his hands on. The possibility that it might be something that didn't bring him joy anymore pulled at something uncomfortable in his stomach.
Bucky opened his mouth like he was going to reply, but then snapped it shut, shrinking away slightly. Another nod.
Steve breathed in deep, reminding himself not to cry. "…Did you like it?"
Bucky blinked twice, then lifted his mug to his mouth, draining the last of what Steve presumed to be hot chocolate. He stared despondently into the bottom of the cup when he was done, frowning a little like he hadn't expected the end to come so soon.
"Next time," he muttered, looking down.
"Next time what?" Steve asked, confused.
"Not you, sorry," Bucky still wouldn't look at him. "My cat."
Steve remembered the furry orange face in his pocket. "Oh," he said dumbly.
"She wants hot chocolate," Bucky explained in a halting sentence, but then apparently decided that that was too many words, because his jaw tightened and he huddled a little deeper into his hoodie, eyes still as far away from Steve as he could get them.
Steve let the silence settle around them, and just took him in, heart high in his throat.
It was clear that the man sitting in front of him was not the same Winter Soldier that he had encountered on the hellicarrier. This man was animated, if quiet. There was a softness to him that contrasted the bright loudness of their childhood, but it suited him. Gone was the dead gaze and the lifeless voice and the gaping absence of recognition.
This was Bucky.
Just… different.
"Two hot chocolates for delivery," Eliza announced brightly, swooping in and expertly depositing steaming mugs in front of them. "Dare I say my café makes them better, but old man here won't hear it."
"Because you are incorrect," Bucky said, smiling slightly as he picked up the fresh mug.
Steve stared, eyes wide as his brain fizzled as screeched to a halt.
He hadn't seen Bucky smile since…
Hell, he didn't even know.
Maybe even before Azzano.
"Well, perhaps we should let Steve give his opinion."
Steve blinked, swallowing hard to clear the lump in his throat. "I only tried your coffee," was all he could say.
"Huh," Eliza remarked. "This is true. Sorry, Bucky, a true deliberation will have to wait."
Bucky didn't seem to mind, and just lifted his mug up to the collar of his hoodie where a small cat poked its nose out and licked at the offered foam. Bucky ducked down a little to kiss the cat's head softly, then took a drink from the mug himself.
Steve thought his heart might shatter with how tender the gesture was.
Bucky had been through seven layers of hell and was still caring for helpless creatures.
Just like he always had.
I'm with you, Stevie.
Steve hid the sudden rush of emotion by taking a long drink from his own cup.
He gasped in pain as the liquid scalded down his throat. "Ow! Fuck, thath hoth!" he swore, blowing out hot air desperately from his mouth and scrabbling for water.
Bucky had paused mid-sip and was looking straight at him, and Steve might have been gladder of the fact except that his tongue was dying and-
"How dith you noth burn youthelth?" he asked, his hands finally locating the water jug and a glass and pouring a healthy glug.
Bucky blinked. Shrugged, a crease appearing between his eyebrows. Then went back to petting his cat and huddling in the warmth of his hoodie.
For a second, a wave of nausea accompanied the burning sensation as "pain tolerance extended beyond…" crept flashed across his vision, but he blinked it away and drank the water. He really didn't want to think about that right now.
"That's quite hot," he stated, needlessly, when his tongue felt functional again.
Eliza hid a smile behind her hand. Bucky stayed silent.
"So, Steve. Bucky wanted to talk to you…" Eliza trailed off, looking at Bucky pointedly.
Bucky shook his head, a tiny motion, in response.
Eliza's eyes darted between Bucky and Steve, gesturing with her eyebrows at Bucky to- well, Steve wasn't quite sure exactly what Eliza's talented eyebrows were trying to convey, but Bucky clearly had no trouble translating, because he glared at her and pouted, sliding lower in his chair and nailing his eyes back to the table in front of him, a frown between his brows.
Steve bit his lip and looked down, feeling unbelievably small.
If he'd had any doubts, they were gone now.
Bucky couldn't even look at him for longer than two seconds. It didn't much matter what Bucky and Steve had meant to each other in the past. Now there was a person in his best friend's body that he hadn't gotten the chance to learn a thing about. And whatever that person thought of Steve, it clearly wasn't anything good.
Maybe he's wondering why he wasted so many years following you around; when have you ever actually not let him down?
Maybe you're just a reminder of how he lost everything to stay with you.
The thought brought a grimace to his face.
The idea that Bucky was finally seeing him for all his failures, rather than sweeping them under the rug and insisting that he was happy to be around Steve was…
Well.
Painful.
'Til the end of the line.
He had been the one to make Bucky stay in the war.
And before then, he had been the one that had wanted to fight, Bucky always reluctant, thrumming with a fear right under the surface of his skin. War doesn't make heroes, Stevie.
And before even then, he had been the one to drag Bucky into every scramble he ever got into. And Bucky was left to pick up the pieces and hold him together, Steve's rock and his anchor when he offered nothing in return.
Every. Single. Time.
Stupid. Stupid.
Steve trained his own eyes onto the table, suddenly feeling like he really should not be here.
"Hey, um, thanks for the hot chocolate, but maybe I should get going," he gushed out in a breath, guilt sludging through his gut, roiling and impossible to ignore. He thought he might be sick. His chair scratched against the floor obnoxiously as he pushed it back with a little too much force.
"No," Eliza's hand darted out to stop him. "Don't go yet. You haven't even finished your drink."
Steve looked back over at Bucky, who hadn't moved except to sink a little further away.
He blinked back the burn in his eyes.
"Right. Yeah, no. Sorry. Of course." He sat back down, ever a slave to politeness.
Eliza sighed in Bucky's direction and grabbed his metal hand to squeeze. With her other hand, she pushed Steve's hot chocolate closer to him, eyes entreating him to stay.
Steve sipped his hot chocolate in awkward silence, only broken by the bubbling of milk being frothed and his own thumping heart.
[-]
"How was your walk?" Natasha asked when he trudged through the door.
He pasted on a smile that convinced absolutely no one. "It was fine."
[-]
The flick of a hair across an eye creased with too many lines of war weary battle looked back at Steve from the margins.
It was rough, and in no way reminiscent of the sketches he used to spend hours perfecting, eyes sneaking glances at Bucky as he hummed while he cooked dinner or stretched out like a lethargic cat and read on the couch, the warm, golden sun falling on him like an angel was passing across their window and had stopped just to stare a little.
Steve ran his thumb gently over the lines anyway, wondering how the hell he was supposed to let this go.
[-]
"You don't have to keep coming over, you know, Buck?" Steve grumbled, nose stuffy and miserable. "Not when I'm sick and gross."
It was sunny outside, glorious and blue, and there was a scratch soccer game that had the sound of kids laughing floating through the cranked window.
Bucky grinned, not a care in the world, and sat on the bed right next to Steve, shoulders touching.
"Don't be stupid, you punk. I'm reading you a story." He flicked another page of the comic.
"You're reading me comics 'cause you know I like the pictures," Steve accused, sniffling.
A light dusting of pink fell high across Bucky's cheek.
Steve thought it made him look awful pretty, but tore his gaze away and clenched his fists because boys aren't supposed to think like that, Rogers.
Bucky sighed, turning his head to catch Steve's downturned gaze.
"You're stupid, you know that? I don't ever wanna be anywhere except here with you."
And Steve felt like a balloon that had just been released into the open blue sky, flying, flying (but surely, he would pop one day and whatever was left of him would plummet, plummet).
"If you're crazy enough to want to spend the day inside, then fine. Read to me." Steve couldn't hide the small curl of his lips if he tried. He leant his head gently against Bucky's shoulder. Just a touch. Like boys do.
Right?
Bucky's voice picked back up, painting the scene with words that didn't even exist on the page.
It made Steve laugh, and he thought this must be what it was like to matter to someone.
[-]
"He doesn't want you around," Steve told his reflection sternly, white fingers gripping the basin. "Stop moping about it and leave him alone."
The face in the mirror crumbled a little. Nostrils flared.
He dragged in a heaving breath, leaning forward to let his head hang between his shoulders. They shook a little, so he tensed, swallowing it down.
Shit.
"Leave. Him. Alone," he repeated.
The eyes that bore into his were glassy with tears that were blinked back stubbornly the next second.
This wasn't about him, Goddammit. He willed himself to just stop being selfish for one second of your life.
It didn't work.
He thought of the downturned eyes, the glare, cold and unwelcome, and the wariness in every line of Bucky's body.
He thought of the soft kiss to the cat's head, the small smile at the hot chocolate, and Eliza's hand on his arm, steady and comforting.
Bucky had a life. A life he had carved out for himself against every single odd. A life built without Steve.
And Steve had bulldozed right into without a single thought to the damage he could do.
Just like always.
He sunk down the cabinet to the tiled floor, feeling blank and empty and wrung out and impossibly lost.
(Plummet, plummet.)
"He doesn't want you around," he whispered to the wall, thinking that maybe if he said it enough times it would finally sink into his thick head.
oOoOoOo
"It hurts to leave a light on for nobody."
-Graham Foust